


Revenge Can Be Served Warm

by MrsHamill



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-19
Updated: 2005-09-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"There are not many who can live up to my standards, Bruce. I think perhaps you will be one of the few. "</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge Can Be Served Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Bottom!Ducard and a Bruce who's gone just a bit to the Dark Side. Tem-ve is a baaaaaaaaad influence MuseBoy, lemme tell you, but she be a goooood beta.

**Then:**

Cold and wet was his world. Once Ducard finally relented and hauled Bruce's half-frozen ass from the lake, Bruce could tell he was well on the way to hypothermia. He had to get out of his sodden clothes, fast, or else he knew he'd end up in worse condition. The urge to simply stop and give in to sleep was so strong and getting stronger...

Ducard made an exasperated sound. "Foolish child." Suddenly, there were large, warm hands taking over for his cold, fumbling fingers, untying, unbuttoning, unzipping, until Bruce was naked and shivering. Warm towels were wrapped around him and he was lifted, carried someplace warm and dry. The huge, hot body stretching out behind him (behind him and around him and everywhere) finally woke him up to realize -- he was in bed with Ducard and they were both naked. 

A dream come true. Or not. Sometimes the dreams were nightmares. He had a funny feeling this would be both.

"Ah, you wake. I was beginning to wonder."

Body heat. That would be the only reason he was in his bed (he was in bed! naked! with Ducard! who was also naked!) with Ducard. He'd almost frozen falling through the ice and Ducard was warming him, keeping him from succumbing to hypothermia. 

"Yes. Sorry."

"Sorry for what, Bruce?" Ducard's voice carried that mocking drawl... all right, he always had that mocking drawl on. It drove Bruce crazy and he knew, just _knew_ that Ducard knew that too.

"Sorry to inconvenience you. Sorry I didn't quite live up to your standards."

"I have faith you will. In time." It was about then that Bruce became aware something was poking him in his lower back. It was something very large and much hotter than the huge body behind him and it made Bruce clench in fear and hope. "There are not many who can live up to my standards, Bruce. I think perhaps you will be one of the few."

When Ducard's fingers, slick with some kind of lubricant, began probing Bruce's asshole, Bruce closed his eyes and clenched his jaw to prevent the whimper that wanted to break free. When Ducard removed his fingers and began pressing his monstrous cock inside, all the clenching in the world wouldn't have been enough. It hurt, it burned, and Bruce had to grab handfuls of the sheets and blankets that covered them to keep from suddenly thrusting back, impaling himself. 

Ducard took his time and it was a long time, a long, slow slide. _Very_ long. But finally, he was in, all the way, and Bruce was gasping, sweat dripping in his eyes.

"I see you are no longer cold," Ducard murmured in his ear. "Perhaps we should see how sure your footing is now." 

And he began to thrust, skipping the preliminaries and going straight to the main event. Bruce grunted with every slam in and whimpered with every withdrawal. His balls were aching and his dick was hard enough to pound nails, to be pounded _as_ a nail, but he wouldn't touch himself. He wanted to wait, wanted to feel everything for as long as possible. Ducard had taught him that -- at times, waiting for the payoff was far better than instant gratification. 

And that bastard was barely breathing hard behind him, even as he pistoned himself in and out of Bruce. One huge, hot hand was resting on Bruce's hip and the other was wrapped around Bruce's neck.

Despite his best efforts, Bruce felt his balls drawing up. The pounding on his prostate was going to make him come regardless. "Give up, Bruce," Ducard whispered in his ear, picking up the pace. "Consider it another lesson." Then Ducard reached around Bruce and squeezed his cock brutally and Bruce came, came so hard he saw stars, came so hard he passed out.

When Bruce woke up, he was alone, resting on sticky sheets. His robe was on the chair, waiting for him and from his sitting room, he smelled and saw a fire. He was cold again and wondered if he would ever get warm without Ducard's hot, strong body with him.

Ducard was sitting before the fire, also dressed in a robe, a glass of wine in his hand. There was another glass on the table next to Ducard's chair, between the two chairs that flanked the fireplace. Gingerly, Bruce perched on the other chair and lifted his glass for a sip. His ass was _sore_ \-- Ducard's dick was like a fucking telephone pole. And it felt good, so very good. Still chilly, he put his glass back and rubbed his arms briskly.

"Don't rub your arms, rub your chest. Your arms will take care of themselves." 

Bruce looked up to see Ducard staring at him, his deep blue eyes hooded. Bruce rubbed his chest.

"There are many lessons to learn in life, Bruce. Some are more pleasurable than others." 

Swallowing, Bruce carefully sat back on his chair and lifted his glass again. "That was extremely pleasurable," he said, striving to make his voice as casual as Ducard's. "And if you say the word, I'll return the favor."

Ducard made a soft noise, one that combined humor and derision. "You cannot take me until you have bested me, Bruce. And you have yet to best me, in anything."

Stung and trying hard not to show it, Bruce drained his glass. "That implies you did not have a good time in there." Whatever tone he was trying for, it came out as petulant.

Finishing his own wine, Ducard rose, looming over Bruce. He pulled his robe aside and Bruce saw his cock, furiously erect and glistening with oil. Bruce's mouth went dry and his dick twitched valiantly. A telephone pole might have been an under-estimation. "A good time, perhaps. But not the best time." Resettling his robe, Ducard moved to the door. "You have yet to best me, Bruce. That should be your goal, for now. But please remember, goals can change, in time." 

He opened the door and stepped through, closing it gently behind him. He'd let the cold air in and Bruce shivered.

* * *

**Now:**

"I _saved_ you, Bruce. And in return, you attacked me and burned my house." 

Ducard's words were set on permanent repeat in Bruce's mind as he flew through Gotham, faster than he believed possible. Yes, he'd attacked Ducard and burned his house, and he had also _saved_ the bastard. There were two sides to the story here, and Ducard was obviously playing only to his strengths.

Finally, finally, he made it to the monorail car. He could hear the hum of the microwave emitter -- it grated on his ears at a frequency to low to hear but too high not to feel -- which was in counterpoint to the exploding manhole covers. Wayne Tower was getting closer and closer. He spared one moment to hope Gordon really did know how to drive a stick-shift before setting it aside; he had too much else to worry about, well-armed ninjas who were guarding the monorail car for example. Then he was there, smashing his way through the roof, and to his surprise, he saw Ducard.

"You!" Ducard drew his sword again. "You took my lessons in theatricality a bit too literally, don't you think?"

"No, I don't think so at all."

There were only seconds left, Bruce knew this, and knew that Ducard knew it. He had to act, had to get the upper hand before the monorail car hit the tower and doomed Gotham. They fought, far more ferociously than ever before and Bruce realized he had never before had a cause worth fighting _for_. This time, he would win. This time, he would best Ducard.

A huge explosion heralded the arrival of the Tumbler and Gordon. Ducard heard/felt it too, but didn't know what it meant. Instead, he concentrated on beating Bruce, his eyes shining with malevolence. Using his gauntlets, Bruce snapped his sword, but Ducard moved faster than a striking cobra and had Bruce by the neck, his thumb pressing against Bruce's Adam's apple. 

"Are you afraid?" he said, his face inches from Bruce's.

"Yes..." Bruce replied. Beyond Ducard, he saw Wayne Tower approaching. "But not of you!"

Yanking free, Bruce snapped his cape up and flew out of the car just before it hit the place where the monorail had been destroyed. Ducard turned and looked, which was when Bruce knew -- Ducard was bested. The Bat had bested Ducard, it shone in every line of Ducard's body as he realized he was doomed, Bruce didn't even have to see his face. It was a sweet moment -- but Bruce wanted more. 

Everything was over in a matter of seconds, or less. Using a combination of his grappling gun and the monofilament line, Bruce snagged Ducard and pulled him bodily out of the explosion that signaled Ducard's failure. One well-placed kick as Ducard's head whipped around had ensured Ducard could no longer feel or react to anything for a nice, long time.

* * *

**And Then:**

Bruce knew Ducard was awake. 

They were in a room not even Alfred knew about, because if Alfred knew what Bruce was doing, he would have one hell of a fit. Lucius might know about it -- it was, after all, in a sub-basement of Wayne Tower -- but if he did, he wouldn't say. Just as he wouldn't comment about the things Bruce had taken from the Applied Sciences warehouse to furnish the room, which was dim and quiet.

Ducard was bent over in a bit more than a forty-five degree angle, his legs and arms spread and tied securely to something that looked like a padded sawhorse on steroids. Bruce didn't know what its real use was supposed to be and really didn't want to find out -- the convenient eyebolts were just a little too convenient. The best thing about it was it evened out the height difference between the two men quite well, and put Ducard precisely where Bruce wanted him. There was a small table nearby with a few things Bruce had put there long before, just in case, along with a chair, a cooler filled with water and a honeybucket which passed as a urinal.

Seeing Ducard's muscles tense and his hands and legs move within the confines of the ropes, Bruce realized his time had come. "The rope is made with silk-wrapped monofilament strands. Quite unbreakable, damned hard to cut. I realize you're probably uncomfortable, but at the moment, I don't care."

Ducard snorted. "I'm surprised to be alive, actually."

"You should be. You tried to destroy my city, Ducard. You have not made me happy."

"Your city deserves destroying, Bruce. It's a cancerous boil on the face of the beautiful Earth."

"Perhaps. But there's more than one way to lance a boil, Ducard. Or is it Ra's al Ghul?"

"Would you like to find out?"

"Not really." Bruce was still in the batsuit. He hadn't wanted to return to the cave before taking care of this one, minor issue. "I really don't care anymore. One name or another..." Bruce grinned. "A dung pile by any other name would smell as rotten." From his utility belt, Bruce removed the boxcutter. "I've bested you, Ducard. I've won."

"No, you haven't, for I'm still alive. Only had you left me to die would you have won."

"Had I left you to die, I wouldn't be able to enjoy the fruits of my success." Carefully, he slit open the back of Ducard's pants, slicing through clothing layers until he reached flesh. He put away the knife and grabbed the two halves of material, pulling sharply, exposing Ducard's ass. "You told me once that I could not take you until I'd bested you. Guess what."

Bruce tugged on the hidden snaps that held his codpiece in place, then pulled his rock-hard dick out from his cup with a sigh of relief. He picked up the tube of Wet he'd left in the room weeks ago and put a large dollop on his gauntlet. "I want you to remember this, Ducard. Hell, _I_ want to remember this." The feel of his gauntlet on his cock was incredibly exciting. He made sure to put extra on his finger so that he could coat Ducard's hole. "No reason to be uncivilized here," he muttered.

"No, none at all," Ducard replied. His back and shoulder muscles stood out in stark relief under his clothing, and because Bruce had been listening for it, he heard the slight hitch in Ducard's voice as one leather-clad finger entered him. "Why are you doing this, Bruce?"

Adding an extra dollop to his finger, Bruce made sure Ducard's hole was nice and slick. "Because I can." Lining himself up, he began to press inside. "Don't worry about me lasting, I've been practicing tantric methods for some time now. Plus, I admit to being... motivated."

It was so tight, so good, and was that...? Yes, it was a very slight whimper. "Did you say something, Ducard?" Bruce's voice was as flat as he could make it, and that was very flat indeed. In fact Bruce wasn't really present at all, but the Bat was enjoying himself immensely.

With one last push, Bruce was all the way in. "Yes, that's very, very good." He leaned down so that his cowled head was near Ducard's ear. "You're very tight, Ducard," he murmured. "Is this the first time this lesson has been given to you?"

Ducard's eyes were closed and beads of sweat were standing out on his face. His muscles were rigid and his channel spasmed. 

Bruce remained where he was, not moving at all. "I'd like you to answer me, Ducard. Is this the first time for you?"

With great effort, Ducard opened his mouth and croaked, "Yes."

"Ah. Good. You have no idea how happy that makes me, Ducard." Still bent over Ducard's back as far as he could, Bruce began a long, slow slide out. "I shall endeavor to make the lesson one that will stick."

Almost out, Bruce slammed back in and made Ducard grunt, made him writhe. It felt so good he did it again. He might not be as well-hung as Ducard, but Bruce was a respectable size and he knew it had to hurt, almost as much as it felt good.

For a nice, long while, he thrust hard, with no real rhythm, occasionally slowing and almost stopping, holding off his orgasm for as long as possible, enjoying himself. He also felt like he was waiting for something, but wasn't quite sure what. In the next moment, he knew. 

There was a strange whining noise, and when Bruce opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) he saw Ducard's face in profile, red and twisted, sweat-coated; Ducard was making the oddest noise he'd ever heard. Not quite a whine, more than a gasp, it was purely primal and so very lovely to hear.

"What?" Bruce asked, beginning to pant as he felt his climax approach. "Are you trying to say something?"

"P-p-please..." Ducard whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Yes?"

"P-please... more..."

That did it. Bruce straightened up and really began to pound. He shoved in and out of that tight ass, feeling the breastplate of his batsuit flexing with each breath and aware of his sweat, beneath his suit, soaking his undershirt. He knew his gauntlets leaving bruises and didn't care. When his climax came, he threw his head back and opened his mouth in a silent howl, the pleasure coursing through him like lightning. Beneath him, he felt Ducard tremble and gasp, felt his rigid muscles spasm, felt his silent sobs.

He didn't pass out this time, but it was a near thing. Breathing deeply, he filed the incredible memory away into his brain's permanent storage. Bruce let his pulse go back to normal before finally pulling out of Ducard. There was a bit of blood on his softened cock, but it wasn't enough to worry about.

Picking up the towel he'd also left in the room, Bruce cleaned himself off and refastened the codpiece. Then he turned to Ducard, who was still trembling. Bruce bent down and looked, then felt -- yes, there was a rather large stain on the front of Ducard's trousers. He snorted in something like mirth. "Ah. I think that explains much."

The way Bruce had tied Ducard to the sawhorse-thing there was a bit of slack, in both his hands and legs. Standing, Bruce pulled the box-cutter back out, opened it and tossed it casually on the table. "That will probably cut through the rope, in time. If you can get to it, that is. If you can, and you manage to cut the rope, you'll be able to get out of the room -- the door's not locked -- and there's an emergency exit at the end of the hall. An alarm will sound, but you'll be long gone before anyone gets down here. I'm not sure how long it'll take me to get back here, but know this: I will come back." He smiled. "Eventually."

Bruce came around to the other side of the frame and squatted down, so he could look Ducard in the eye. The cut over his temple, caused by Bruce's boot meeting Ducard's face, had already closed. "There are many lessons in life, Ducard. I hope you remember this one well."

Making sure everything was proper, Bruce turned and opened the door to leave. As he closed it gently behind him, he heard Ducard whisper something, but he had no idea what it was, and didn't particularly care to know, either. He took his access card out and used it to call the service elevator. He had work to do.

emd


End file.
